Lost And Found
by Tatsumaki-sama
Summary: It all began that day when six-year-old Sam brought his great-great-grandfather's glasses to his class for show-and-tell ...


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Transformers or any of its characters.

**To tell you the truth, I have no idea when this idea popped into my head. It must have been after reading some "an orphaned Sam gets adopted by the Autobots/someone else" fics. And so, I decided to start this AU story in a time line eleven years behind the original storyline, with Sam being six years old rather than being seventeen.  
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**Sam may seem a little OOC due to the fact that he is six years old here and that he is disabled from his sight. Not to mention, I decided make him more mature and smarter than your average six year old. I'll try my best to portray him and the Autobots and Decepticons as authentic and genuine as possible. If you have any suggestions on how to improve my writing, please let me know. I'll gladly accept constructive criticism.**

**The chapter title is derived from the commonly heard phrase/saying "_Ignorance is Bliss_". Because _certain_ things that are left unsaid are often better left unsaid. I don't own it or the quote below.  
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**Lost And Found**

_"A child is a priest of the ordinary, fulfilling a sacred office that absolutely no one else can fill. The simplest gesture, the ephemeral movement, the commonest object all become precious beyond words when touched, noticed, lived by one's own dear child." _- Mike Mason

**Chapter 1 –** Ignorance Is Bliss

**(Sam)**

The low hum of the PA system was oddly loud, now that there were no other sounds to contradict it. Sounds of children running and their screams of laughter were hushed from within the school's thick walls. The soft patter of footsteps prattled on the marble floor somewhere down the hallway, echoing. _Clack, clack, clack, _they went pretentiously_._ Somewhere on the window sill in the classroom, a fly buzzed heatedly against the glass, beating against it with its tiny fists, desperate for freedom. Even though I stood a good distance away from the window, I could tell that the that the window was already opened halfway, feeling a cool breeze dancing across my skin. I did contemplate opening the window a little more for the silly fly to realize that escape wasn't impossible. But I was momentarily diverted by the groaning squeak of hinges as the entrance doors opened.

My fleeting hope was squashed when I didn't hear my mother's voice or her routine stride of _clip clop clip clock_. The doors apparently revealed not whom I was hoping for. There were footsteps approaching me, in a gait that I somewhat recognized as the principal of the school. He must have stopped in front of me, for the footsteps abruptly ceased directly in front of me, perhaps to gaze at me with my backpack hung over one shoulder and clutching a shoebox labeled _Artifacts: handle with care_ that my father had wrote for me.

" Your parents not here yet, son?" he asked kindly.

" No, sir," I answered politely, shaking my head to emphasize my response. He must have nodded absently and smiled, like what he did to all little kids at this school, before heading off to the staff room for some well-deserved coffee and chitchat with his fellow teachers, leaving me standing rigidly beside my locker like a soldier on guard.

Bored, I shifted slightly, allowing my backpack to slid from my shoulder to the ground with a soft thud. My fingers brushed over my specially designed watch, a present from my Uncle Charles. It was 3:43. My mother was now twenty minutes late. And my mother wasn't known to be late. If anything, my mom would arrive early, at least fifteen minutes, to pick me up. Dad was a little more lenient than Mom, frequently turning up a few minutes late. But even so, if my father was picking me up today, he would never be _this_ late. He can be quite strict with the limits of how tardy one can be.

The clacking of high heels snipping smartly on the tiled floor alerted me of Mrs. Morrison's presence beside me. I imagined her with graying hair swelling out like a balloon, her round glasses dangling over her little pointed nose, constantly pulled up with her carefully manicured fingers. Her dull dress would sway methodically as she marched towards me, stiff and stern. " Did your parents mention that they were going to be late today?" my teacher asked, her tone almost accusing at me of staying later than I was suppose to.

Shaking my head, I merely looked at her. Or at least, in the general direction of where I thought she was. " My mom said she was coming to pick me up," I replied evenly.

Mrs. Morrison huffed irritably. Most of the school knew her as one of the crankiest teachers around. She snapped at us if we goofed off or if we spoke too loudly in her classroom. It was just my luck that I was stuck with her for this year. A whole year with Mrs Morrison was beyond any kind of torture meant to torment a six year old like me. But it was just a few more months until summer comes. Then I could kiss (not literally) crabby, old Mrs. Morrison goodbye and never see her again. " Perhaps someone else is coming to pick you up today?" she suggested irritably, her suggestions snapping off her sharp tongue. " Maybe a neighbor? A family friend?"

Again, I shook my head. It was best if I didn't provoke her anymore than necessary. I had learned that a while ago the hard way. " My mom said she would be come," I repeated squarely. I could almost hear her lips pressing together, her scrutinizing gaze burning into the side of my head. I stared determinedly ahead, pretending not to notice. Mrs. Morrison always did see me as a strange boy. The majority of my classmates did too.

Not that I can really blame interests and behavior often varied from normal children of my age. I can often hear things that even adults tend to miss, perceiving things differently than them, due to my condition. Even my parents couldn't find a proper explanation for why I act the way I do, why I was like this. Because I was weird. Samuel "Weird" Witwicky, as some classmates have notably named me.

Today for show-and-tell, I had decided to bring in a box of ancient relics, including a pair of half-broken glasses that had belonged to my great-great-grandfather, Archibald Witwicky, an Arctic explorer. And who also happened to be someone who unexpectedly went blind and insane and placed in an asylum after his voyage. Maybe that's where I got my blindness.

I had been blind for as long as I could remember. My parents accepted this disability of mine and tried their best to work around it, encouraging that though I cannot see, I wasn't any less different than any other person. They even allowed me to go to a regular school, so I could interact with normal kids my age. But still, it was hard to do so because I couldn't physically see what they look like. I had to use my imagination to picture them and trust me, when I said that my imagination was as advanced as your average six year old. I usually judged their appearance by their voice and their attitude towards me. If they were friendly to me, I visualized a smiling, cheerful face. If they sneered and presumably made faces at me, I gave them an ugly facade, dark, mocking and cruel.

The familiar creaking of the doors made Mrs. Morrison and I snapped from our separate thoughts and turn towards the source of the sound, hoping this time would be my parents, so we can depart gratefully from each other's uncomfortable presences. Instead, I was surprised to hear a jumble of unfamiliar footsteps, orderly and concise. The gruff, deep voice that suddenly appeared, spoke in a manner demanded respect and attention. " Excuse me, can you tell us where we can find Samuel Witwicky?" the man asked curtly.

I could feel Mrs. Morrison's hand brusquely pushing me behind her, shielding me with her lanky body. " Is there a particular reason why you need to see one of my student, officer?" she asked, just as briskly as the policeman.

I was stunned. I never knew that Mrs. Morrison could be so protective. The officer, on the other hand, continued on as if there was no interruption. " Officer Haplin here will tell you the rest, ma'am, while we speak to Sam."

" Now wait one darn minute here." The objection and defiance was clear in her voice, more so than I have ever heard before. " I have every right to stay with Sam and - let go of me!"

I felt Mrs. Morrison being pulled away from me, her bony grip on my wrist being stripped away, and she was led away by whoever this Officer Haplin. Her shrill demands were sharply cut off, hushed by an urgent whisper of the policeman and she suddenly followed him as docile as a lamb. How the officer managed to do was a miracle itself. Nothing I knew could possibly stilled the unyielding vitality of my teacher.

" You're Sam, right?" the police officer who had spoken first asked, drawing my attention from Mrs. Morrison and the other officer back to him. He waited expectantly for an answer. I stared sightlessly at the older man before nodding mutely, wondering why this Officer Haplin had escorted Mrs. Morrison away and what was so important that they wanted to speak to me privately. " You see Sam, your parents – uh, couldn't come and pick you up today. So we - " there was a slight cough and a punctual chorus of hellos from the remaining officers " - are going to drop you off at your parents' friends' house until then. You know, Mr. and Mrs. Daniels, right? They live just a few streets down your house. You know them, right?"

Again, I nodded, not really sure why the officer was talking so tentatively and earnestly when before, he spoke so bluntly to Mrs Morrison. " How come my parents couldn't come and get me?" I asked inquisitively.

The officer paused, hastily recovering from his hesitation. " They went on a trip," he answered shortly.

" They didn't mention anything about a trip this morning," I pointed out offhandedly.

" It was unexpected," was all he said in reply, voice oddly taut and awkward. Slightly interested and definitely curious, I was going to ask some more questions when I heard the familiar high heels of Mrs. Morrison returning with the unfamiliar, rougher steps of the mysterious Officer Haplin.

" Why don't you go with the policemen, Sam?" she suggested, her normally stern voice rather emotional. There was that strange, sympathetic tone again buried in her voice, just like the officers. Like they know something that I don't. " I bet you want to go on a ride in a police car, don't you?"

Excitement bubbled forth in me, forgetting all about my questions. Who _wouldn't_ want to go on a ride in a police car? Impatiently, I allowed one of the policemen to escort me to it while the others remained to speak to Mrs. Morrison again, mentioning something about "a dangerous police car". But as soon as we reached the car, I disregarded the conversation between the adults and reveled in the awesomeness of being in the presence of a police car. I ran my fingers over the warm, sticky metal, heated from the scorching afternoon sun. There was a dent at the side of the door, just below the passenger window. Grinning at the image of a wild car chase, I moved down to the trunk of the car, my hands excitedly fanning out as much as possible, wondering what other stories this machine would tell me.

Sadly though, I was forced to stop my analysis when the policemen and Mrs. Morrison returned from whatever they were talking about. " Sam." Muscles and joints creaked slightly as Mrs. Morrison bent down, gripping me gently by the shoulders in an effort to either comfort me or herself. " I want you to be on your best behavior and listen to what these policemen tell - " Her hands were shaking, I realized with astonishment. They were trembling and uncertain for once. " - understand, Sam? All right?" I nodded in reply, squirming uncomfortably. Her hands seemed to clamp tighter on my shoulders before finally loosening their grasp. "Well, go on then." Her voice gained their bite back. " You don't want to keep your parents' friends waiting. I'll see you on Monday."

I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye as I was being steered to the car and ushered in, where inside, my worries were brushed aside like a pestering fly.

I practically bounced in the back seat as the police car started up and began driving. The windows were opened thankfully to let a gentle wind into the stifling car. I desired to stick my head out the window to truly feel the wind on my face and allow my hair to flutter as they please, but I could not. Throughout the ride, the officers asked me many causal questions. How were my grandparents? And my aunts and uncles and cousins? Did any of them visit over the past few months? Did any strangers visited the house lately? Did they talked to mommy and daddy? Did they talked to me at all? And so on. At first, I didn't really mind the questions. Policemen are supposed to ask lots and lots of questions. It was in their job description or something. But soon, my suspicions returned as soon as they had asked me if my parents seemed to be strained or nervous, if they're always guarded and locking the doors unnecessarily.

At that time, I didn't realize that the officers were already a few steps ahead of me. Instantaneously, as soon as I wanted to ask a question, they distracted me, asking if I wanted to see how fast the car could go or if I wanted to hold their badges. Like all other children not realizing they were manipulated by the clever tactics of adults, I fell into their bait, line, hook and sinker.

By the time we reached the Daniels' house, I heard Mr. and Mrs. Daniels' voices cheerfully greeting us, coming down from the front poach the moment the car parked on the driveway. I remembered the friendly couple from a few dinners and gatherings my parents would have now and then. Their daughter was already married, living not too far away from her parents, while their two sons were still in university, both living in other cities. I remembered the smell of Mrs. Daniels' mouth-watering coffee sponge cake and how utterly creamy and smooth it was. I absently wondered if she still had any leftovers.

After the quick greetings, Mr. Daniels offered to carry my backpack and shoebox while Mrs. Daniels fussed over me, mentioning how skinny I had looked and how she had whipped up her special coffee sponge cake, saving a piece especially for me. Then, the Daniels also invited the officers to stay but they politely declined, claiming that they had to returned to work. One of them clapped me on the shoulder in what he believed to be a friendly manner while anther ruffled my hair before they left. The police car rumbled and spat noisily on the street as it rounded by the corner and disappearing both from my sightless view and from earshot.

It was undeniable strange being in another house. Mrs. Daniels was extremely careful, leading me to the kitchen, waiting patiently as I felt my way through the house. The wallpaper was smooth and cleanly, fresh and crisp like it was spring. It was even stranger once I reached the Daniels' kitchen. It was peculiarly different than my kitchen. I bumped into the refrigerator in the corner, humming loudly, before brushing past a nearby door, which, according to Mrs. Daniels, led into the hallway and then to the living room and the stairs. Ever mindful of the spotless stack of plates and cups heaped close by, smelling of cleanliness and apple cinnamon, I counted a neat lineup of five cupboards and drawers on both sides of the sink. I mentally tallied up these differences in my head compared to my kitchen as Mrs. Daniels shepherded me to a rather petite table, apparently much smaller than what I was accustomed to, and handed me a slab of some coffee sponge cake.

The cake was as delicious as ever, maybe even more than usual. I couldn't withhold from asking for seconds, using my manners, saying please and thank you as Mom had taught me, gratefully accepting a glass of milk along with a new plate full of another piece of cake. When I was comfortably filled, Mr. Daniels gingerly guided me up the stairs to the room where he had placed my backpack and shoebox for the time being.

Upstairs, located snugly at the edge of the house, the bedroom itself was as pleasant as the kitchen. Finding myself next to the much bigger bed, I felt significantly smaller next to it, almost twice as big as me. I had difficulty climbing onto it and plopping down on it, like all kids my age. Perched up there, I lazily listened to Mr. Daniels pointing out that my backpack and shoebox were lying on top of a desk next to a half-opened window, with its curtains fluttering back and forth from a gentle, summer breeze, and other details in the room that I didn't notice yet.

" Um, Mr. Daniels?" I timidly raised my head, swinging my feet back and forth repeatedly from the bed, a habit of mine whenever I get skittish.

"Yes, Sam? Don't hesitate to ask me or Mrs. Daniels anything," he said promptly. A little too promptly, as if he had memorized the sentences, repeating them over and over again in his mind until the words flowed out smooth and crisp like the sponge cake.

" Do my parents know that I'm here?" I asked, now rocking on the bed. Like an agitated bird or something. The covers must have been hand-sewn by Mrs. Daniels; I could feel the neat stitching and cotton rubbing under my fingers. " It's just that I don't want them to worry or anything like that ..."

" Of course, they know that you're here," Mr. Daniels interrupted cheerily. "I don't think your parents would leave you at the school all by yourself, would they?"

I laughed. It was silly of me to think my parents would leave me behind like that. I remembered there was one time I had wandered off in a grocery store and my dad nearly tore the store apart to find me, while my mom threatened to sue the store for lack of child supervision. Yes, it was silly of me to think like that. And it was the end of that matter for now.

The rest of the afternoon flashed by quickly. After listening some of my favourite, after-school television shows and with some motivation from Mrs. Daniels, completed some of my homework with Mr. Daniels hovering over me, providing as much help as he cheerfully could, I was treated to a wonderful dinner of steak, mashed potatoes and peas. Afterwards, the Daniels took me to the mall to do some clothing shopping, declaring that my parents also left some money to purchase some new things for me to make up for their absence. As a bonus, Mr. Daniels promised to also go to the toy section and buy a new toy for me as well. I was so excited that I didn't squirm as much as I normally would for a fitting. I was too busy trying to decide what action figure to get, than to notice that Mrs. Daniels was pulling a pair of pajamas over my head to see if it matched my size.

By the time we've returned home, I was swishing my new toy around, crowing out the narration of Captain Hero scaling the heights of Mt. Doom and swimming to the depths of the shark-infested ocean to face his deadly enemy, General Evil. Captain Hero's adventures took me all the way to bath time, where I splashed messily in the waters, wiggling under Mr. Daniels' handling, different than my father's slighter rougher yet placid touch. The weirdness of sleeping in a room other than my own was finally catching up to me, starting from the fact I was wearing a new pair of pajamas and ending with the fact that it was Mrs. Daniels who was tucking me into bed and not my mom.

" Have a good night, Sam," Mrs. Daniels said in the way all mothers would say to their child - except that I wasn't her child and she wasn't my mother, kissing me on the forehead before heading to the door.

By the time I had wormed my way from underneath the suffocating mass of blankets, I was both irritated and suspicious, far more than I have ever experienced before. Why were all the adults avoiding my questions? I felt like I was a prisoner, locked behind bars without knowing why and how I had gotten there. It was unnerving to be kept clueless like this. Especially since it involved _my _mom and dad. " Did my parents say when they're coming to pick me up tomorrow?" I asked, forcing my voice to one of patience and courtesy.

An uncomfortable silence greeted me. I begun wondering if Mrs. Daniels didn't hear me and had left the room when I heard her soft, reluctant voice. " They'll come and get you when they come back from their trip," she replied, for some reason, sounding distant despite only being separated from me not too far away when I last checked. " So until then, you'll stay with us as long as necessary." Then, without a further word, she flicked the lights off and closed the door with a snap, leaving me in a deafening silence.

As tired as I was after today's excitement, I couldn't sleep. I leaned back into the pillow, winding my head to accommodate to my fitting, though it did not help much. I shifted in the bed, the unfamiliar blanket and mattress scratching at my sensitive skin. I longed for Dylan, my stuffed animal elephant that my grandfather had gotten me a few years back. I fidgeted, twisting and turning under the sweltering covers. The room smelled peculiar to me. On the contrary, it was a rather nice scent of cooking, books and wood. But having slept in my room for the majority of my short life, I found that I detested that stench.

I fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of monstrous shadows extending towards me, needle-sharp claws reaching for my legs and my parents calling for me but I was unable to find them. Dylan, who had suddenly come to life and at least ten times larger than he was supposed to be, kept waving his bizarrely shaped snout back and forth like a pendulum, hypnotizing me, speaking in an odd voice, like a collection and fusion of voices, male and female, young and old, telling me to find the Rubix Cube that will help save me and the others. But even as I insisted that I didn't know where the cube was and that it was impossible anyways since I have no idea what a Rubix Cube looked like, the world around us began collapsing and the ground below me opened wide and I plummeted, waking with a start in a room and bed that I did not like.

Rubbing my eyes, I rolled over to the side, reaching blindly for my watch. It was nearing six o' clock, not even remotely close to the time I generally woke up at. I threw the blanket off, as if discarding a repulsive object that clung desperately onto me. Yawning and stretching, I made my way down the stairs slowly, extra careful not to fall down.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, not quite sure where the washroom was. As I racked my brain to remember where the washroom was when Mr. Daniels told me yesterday, I rounded into the hallway, feeling utterly lost.

" So no one's willing to take Sam in?"

I froze at the sound of Mrs. Daniel's unusually weary voice coming from my far right. Mrs. Daniels was always a lively person as far as I knew. Maybe she just sounded different in mornings. Cautiously, I crept towards Mrs. Daniels' voice, feeling my way around, finding that the door was slightly opened and I was unable to resist tip-toeing towards it, holding my breath, pressing my ear against the wood.

" From the looks of it, no. At least, not of right now," Mr. Daniels was saying. There was a faint rustle of a newspaper crinkling and the soft pats of Mrs. Daniels' slippers slapping at the floor as she walked. I leaned forward, nose touching the door, desperate to hear more. " Ron's mother died when he was young," Mr. Daniels continued. " And his father is currently in a retirement home. Most of Ron's siblings are either in another state or out of the country completely. We haven't heard any reply from them yet."

" And Judy's side?" Mrs. Daniels asked, her voice more of a whisper.

" Both of her parents are dead," her husband brusquely replied, shuffling the newspaper again. " It was a car accident about eight years ago. Fortunately, Judy was staying at her friend's house that night or else …"

His voice trailed off. Mrs. Daniels was silent too. Suddenly, a shrill whistle of the teapot startled all three of us. I probably would have tumbled into the door if I didn't catch myself in time. Mr. Daniels cleared his throat and Mrs. Daniels' quick footsteps meant that she hurried over to the teapot. " Judy had a brother, Charles," he continued as if he wasn't interrupted. " But no one's heard from him in almost two years. The last time he appeared was at Sam's fourth birthday."

The shrieking of the teapot had stopped and so did Mrs. Daniels' sighing. " Poor child." It was unquestionable who the 'child' she was referring to. " He's only six."

" It's bad enough for anyone," her husband gently chided her. " No one should have to go through something like that. I mean, what are the chances of it happening? Who would have thought that Ron and Judy would be - "

_Creak!_

Silence. Meaning two heads were probably staring at the half-opened door. I silently scolded myself for fidgeting to get a better view, thus revealing my presence. I was so close to finding out what had happened to my parents and that trip they went on. But since Mr. and Mrs. Daniels knew that I was there, I might as well play along. I could afford to wait another day or so before finding out what was really going on. Yawning hugely, I pushed the door deliberately, rubbing my eyes, the picture of an innocent child just woken up.

" Good morning, Mr. Daniels. Good morning, Mrs. Daniels," I said, covering my mouth with another fake yawn.

" And a good morning to you, Sam." Judging from the sudden ebullience in the air, I assumed that Mrs. Daniels was smiling luminously at me, her fatigued voice instantly brimming with merriment. I wasn't able to tell if they deduced that I had eavesdropped on their little conversation. Her cheerfulness masked her thoughts that well. " We didn't expect you so early in the morning. After all, it is the weekend."

I shrugged, as Mrs. Daniels helped me into a chair beside Mr. Daniels. " I guess I'm an early waker," I said, bringing a chuckle from both adults.

" Did you sleep all right last night?" Mr. Daniels asked, just as exuberant as his wife, as Mrs. Daniels passed to me a bowl of something warm and a plate with a piece of toast.

" Yeah, it's all right," I heard myself say, though I knew everything was clearly _not_ all right.


End file.
